


see how our wants horrify us

by seroquel (smallredboy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Hypersexuality, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Phone Calls & Telephones, Recovery, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, written by a survivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/seroquel
Summary: Dean starts having thoughts about Sam. Things unravel from there.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 11





	see how our wants horrify us

**Author's Note:**

> hi. as a preface, let me just say this: i am not a wincest shipper. in fact, i am an anti. comments are turned off from this fic because i don't want clownery in there. this fic is not a wincest fic by any shape or form- by that i mean that yes, it does involve dean and sam interacting sexually, but this is not a story where this is romanticized or fetishized by the narrative in any way.
> 
> the romanticization and fetishization of incest, especially between siblings, is weird. especially when we fall into arguments about how it can be consensual and healthy. yes, it can be consensual, but matter of fact is that most of the time an incestuous relationship that is between "equals" is done to cope with something worse in an incredibly unhealthy manner- like in this fic. 
> 
> i don't care about this being preachy, as a sexual abuse survivor, both from a relative in my age group _and_ from people on the internet who groomed me while fetishizing incest.
> 
> enjoy, maybe.
> 
> ps: i have not watched more than two episodes of supernatural.

Everything goes from bad to worse when Dean kisses Sam.

He's formed a thousand excuses in his head, a thousand reasons why this is alright, actually— they're isolated from the rest of the world. No one would ever understand what they're going through, what they've gone through. Their father and their mother, everything they've lost— all they have left is the Impala and each other. He's used to sleeping with random women, as a way to cope with everything, sex a way to shut his brain off. But he's realized that he's into men, and Hell, he's stuck here, with Sam, for the rest of their lives.

There's nothing to be done about that. He just wishes there was something more.

As first it starts with intrusive thoughts. He thinks about kissing Sam and he pulls away from their brotherly hug as if he's been burned. Sam looks at him, asks him what's wrong. The thoughts eventually start to fill his life, every moment that isn't about saving his own life or his brother's is spent obsessing over why he's thinking about his brother in this way. He tries to distract himself and have sex with a pretty woman he meets at a bar, and instead when she rides him her hair covers her face in such a way that, for a second, he sees Sam. He resists the urge to pull away and scream, tell her to _get out_ , but he's sick for the rest of the night, even after she falls asleep on her bed.

There must be _something_ doing this to him. Something must be putting these thoughts in his head, with the express purpose of making him go crazy from the guilt of wanting to touch his brother. Because he doesn't _want_ to— he's never thought about Sam this way. He's not some _incest freak_. Some fucking demon or creature or something must be injecting these thoughts into his brain and making him freak out over them. This must be the explanation. This must be why. When he has a wet dream about Sam where nothing bad happens and Sam rides his cock he wakes up relaxed, come drying in his boxers, before guilt hits him full-force.

Everything about this is fucked up. He should not be considering _acting_ on these horrid thoughts, but it seems like it'll be the only way to stop them.

"Hey man," he tries to start, casually. "I need to talk to you about something."

Sam turns and looks at him. "What is it, Dean?"

He swallows thickly. It feels like there's something stuck in his throat. He processes, not for the first time, just how nice to look at Sam is. His lips and the way his hair frames his face... he tries to stop himself from thinking too much about it. He grips at his thigh, feeling the denim of his jeans. Breathe, Dean, breathe.

"I think... I think something must be controlling my thoughts. Some creature."

He blinks. "They're usually less, um, _subtle_ than that."

"I know, Sammy," he replies. "But I— I've been having... thoughts that aren't my own. Thoughts that disgust me and that feel like they're _made_ to disgust me."

Sam sighs and takes a cigarette out of his pocket, lights it and holds it in between his fingers, looking at it rather than at Dean. "That one time I tried to go to a shrink I think he mentioned something like that. Intrusive thoughts."

Dean nods. "That makes sense," he says, then sighs. "I don't know. I don't think I'm... mentally ill, or anything. I mean, it's more likely Crowley's fucking with me than that, right?" He laughs awkwardly.

Sam finally addresses the elephant in the room. "What are you thinking about, Dean, exactly?"

He freezes in the spot, looks away at one of the seats in the Impala. "That doesn't matter," he says.

"Yes it does. What's it about could help see if it's like, a demon thing or—"

He shakes his head. "No," he replies. "No, it doesn't matter, Sammy, trust me, you don't want to know—"

"Dean!" he exclaims. "What is it?"

"It's—" He scrunches up his face. He doesn't want to tell him. He doesn't want to start crying about it, either, but both may happen. "You're going to hate me if I tell you." He sounds like a little kid.

"Dean, I couldn't hate you," he says. "We're all we have. It's just the two of us against the rest of this goddamn world. Please, tell me."

He chokes back a sob. "I want to— I've been having... thoughts. About you." He doesn't dare look at him, see the gears turn in his head.

"Dean," he says, softly. "What kind of thoughts?"

Only a string of his voice left, he replies, "Sexual."

A long, terrifying pause follows.

Dean says, before Sam can leave the Impala, disgusted and terrified: "I'm sorry," he breathes out. "I'm sorry, Sammy, this is why I didn't want to tell you and I'm starting to want to act on it and I want to believe it's the demons or some other creature but I don't know anymore and I—"

"Dean," Sam cuts him short, voice shaking ever so slightly. "Dean, I've always... liked you." It feels like a line from some horrible little romantic movie, and Dean nearly throws up at hearing it. "I mean, I haven't, but... I've just- I don't know. I know it's not right but everything that's happened made me feel really messed up and when I was nineteen I realized I liked guys because I looked at you."

Dean's eyes widen and he looks up at him. At his _brother_. Their similarities are thrown back at him. Same eyes, same nose. He feels like he wants to throw up. "Really?"

"Yeah," he says in a small voice. "I... kept having wet dreams where you touched me and it felt good and I just — I buried it deep deep down because I knew you'd find it disgusting and horrible and would scream at me because of it."

Dean tries not to think about Sam, thirteen, sneaking out of his bedroom and into his own, curling up next to him. It wasn't until the morning after that he saw the blood staining the sheets, only one explanation for its positioning. _Who did this to you?_ he had asked, desperate, and Sam shook his head, refusing to tell. But only so many people lived there with them. He knew, he's always known, as much as they refuse to talk about it.

"Sam, I wouldn't," he replies. "I... I don't know what to do. This is... this is wrong. We shouldn't do anything about it. We should just... try to move on, right? We can't just... _act_ on it. That's repulsive."

"But," Sam tries. And the word immediately fills Dean with something. He doesn't know what it is. His heart hammers in his ears. "But— Dean. We're all we have. We're all... we're all we have, for each other. We're alone against— against the rest of the world. Why are we stopping ourselves?"

Even as Dean is ready to refuse, he moves closer to Sam's spot in the Impala's backseat. He feels ill, sickened. There are so many things wrong with this— there are so many things wrong with the two of them. "Because it's _wrong_ , Sam," he breathes out. "You're... you're my little brother. I can't just touch you."

"But you want to," Sam replies. "You want to. We both want this, Dean. It's not like you're abusing me." There's a unspoken line, there: _you're not abusing me like dad did_. "Kiss me."

"Sammy," he tries, but his conscience is slipping by the second, simply becoming water in his hands. It slips and it flows down onto the floor. "I don't know if this is a good idea."

He smiles at him, all teeth, ferocious, and that's when Dean decides he is going to go through with this. "It isn't."

That's what makes Dean break the distance, pull him closer and kiss him. For a moment he's just back in a bar, kissing some woman who's halfway to drunk (while he's also halfway to drunk) but then Sam's stubble presses against his chin and this is real and he's kissing a man, and even worse he's kissing his brother. He kisses him and he slips his tongue into his little brother's mouth, their bodies pressed together, and something inside him snaps, his heart clenching against his chest painfully.

Once they pull away, a fine line of saliva connects their tongues, and Dean is struck by what he's doing. He opens the backseat's left door and promptly throws up the contents of his dinner into the grass.

Sam puts a hand on his back, rubs comforting circles into it and murmurs reassurances. It's when he moves closer to him that his groin presses against Dean's thigh, and he's struck by the realization that he's half-hard. His stomach's contents slip out more at that, now only acidic bile that makes his throat burn.

"It's okay," Sam says, over and over again, "it's okay," like he isn't almost grinding on his thigh. 

They're sick. He doesn't know if he'll ever get past this phase of disgust, if he'll ever get used to their new normal, or if the guilt will simply keep swallowing him whole.

* * *

The disgust, as it turns out, comes and goes, a carousel of emotions that depends on the day and how much Dean has had to drink. Now that he has a few drinks on his system, his moral compass is a little skewered, and if there's anything to say about the situation they've found themselves in is that Sam is fucking beautiful.

They're in the Impala when he starts kissing Sam, breath tinged with beer, working off his shirt's buttons. Of course he didn't expect any other location for this to happen in. If they were ever to fuck, it was going to be at the Impala. Even his subconscious made sure to nail that little detail, Sam's hands pressed against his chest as he rode him in the backsea in his dreams..

"Dean," he breathes out, voice ragged and airy, clinging onto him. "Dean, please."

"Sam," he says, hand gripping at his thigh. "I can't— we shouldn't."

"Come on," he says. "Come on. You know you want to." 

"Sammy," he tries to warn, knowing it's useless. That when Sam wants something he'll get it. That he's the younger brother, and that's how it works. Spoiled rotten child. He knows that's not how it was, Sam curling up against him in his bed playing again and again in his head, like a messed up DVD. _You're just like your father_ , he thinks, and that almost makes him stop in his tracks, stop pulling off Sam's shirt. But he knows that already. He's just like his father. Alcoholic and horrible and a hunter and _fucking Sam_.

There's little to do about it now.

"Come on," Sam repeats. "Fuck me, Dean." A pause, long and horrible, and then he whispers, "Fuck your little brother."

Dean nearly protests at that, tells him to not bring it up, that let him at least pretend that they met at a bar and are having a gay little hookup or something, but then Sam kisses him and all his protests die in his mouth. His head throbs both from the alcohol in his system and the way he's _doing this_ , that he's doing this to his brother and he wants this but it's still wrong in a way he can't even begin to articulate.

Sam had the foresight to buy lube at a drugstore.

"You done this before?" Sam asks, with a certain type of casualness he can appreciate in a situation like this. "Fucked a guy, I mean."

He huffs. "Uh... not really." A pause. He hiccups. "You?"

"Oh, me?" He lets out a little laugh. "I have."

Dean blinks. "Apart from—"

" _Yes_ , Dean, apart from him." He huffs. "I've had consensual sex with men, thank you very much."

"How'd I never find out?"

"I'm very good at keeping secrets," he replies. "When I was twenty and in college I had a lot of hookups with gay dudes. I always bottomed." He laughs. "Not sure— not sure why. It's not like I look like this or anything."

Dean lets out a shaky little laugh. "Of course. Do you want me to, uh, do the honors? You can lead the way, as you apparently know what you're doing."

"If you're going to call me a slut, then call me a slut," Sam says. "Don't try and spin it around into something else."

"You want me to—"

"Yes."

That night, they have sex for the first time; Sam's head presses against the car door and Dean thinks about someone, something watching them, guilt washing over him throughout the entire ordeal, even as a lukewarm reaction, something in the back of his mind rather than the center.

He calls Sam a slut, fucks into him harshly, hips snapping against the back of his thighs— Sam's hairy thighs wrap around his waist and he feels _so so good_ and he shouldn't feel so good but he does. When Dean comes, he cries out in a long, silent whimper, filling him up, it dripping as he pulls away. 

He's a little dizzy, grabbing onto the driver's seat for stability. "Oh God," he says softly.

Sam smiles. "Oh God indeed," he tuts. "Y'think you want to lick your own cum out of me?"

He nearly doubles over at that. "Sammy," he says, voice slightly slurred, "You're going to kill me. You're going to be the death of me."

"I don't care anymore," Sam replies. "I don't care about morals or destiny or _whatever_ the fuck — I know I want you, and that's all that matters. If you don't want to rim me then I can just let it drip into my boxers, I'll take a shower next stop."

Dean's stomach flips and he feels the well-known burn of arousal pull through him. He bites his lip. "You're a spoiled brat," he replies as he pulls himself back down.

Sam grins at him, devilish. "And you like it that way."

In his inebriated state, all Dean can think of is that yes, he does. Yes he fucking does.

* * *

They swerve away from destiny with one simple trick: not talking to each other in favor of ignoring what had happened in between them.

As much as he'd like to claim that it was good for them, it wasn't. It was consensual, sure, but that's about where it ends. Sam has sexual trauma to work through, on top of everything else they've gone through together— all sleeping with each other did was exacerbate their issues, finding themselves in a cycle of self hate and self blame.

Everything stops when they both realize they need to get out, to stop doing this. Sam gets accepted at a college and Dean gets a crappy job that barely makes rent, and when he can't make it because of prices rising he just sleeps in the Impala.

They don't talk to each other. Their bond dies along with the knowledge that what they did to each other was very very wrong. When he tries to find a therapist— after having an alcoholic meltdown at work— he talks about it and tries not to throw up, guilt eating him alive. All he did was make Sam worse. He's sure he must be suffering now, dealing with the trauma left by getting fucked by not one but _two_ family members. Sure, the second time was consensual, but—

"Incest as a maladaptive coping mechanism isn't exactly common," his therapist tells him. "But it does happen, and I've certainly seen cases like yours before. I know it's hard not to blame yourself for doing this to your brother, but you're struggling just as much as he is." There's a pause. "You've gone no contact, yes?"

"Not... not on purpose," he says softly. "It wasn't like we told each other we were never going to speak again. It just... sort of happened. I want to talk to him but it feels like we'll either kill each other or start sleeping together again."

She nods. "I think you should try to talk to him, in a purely platonic way, of course. Perhaps a call would work for these purposes?"

"Yeah," he agrees, drawing in a breath, his stomach up in knots. "Perhaps that would work.

After work the next day, he finally manages to call Sam. He's terrified of the results, of what's going to happen, if somehow everything will turn even worse for the two of them, now that they have to acknowledge what they've done to each other.

"Dean," he says, voice cold, from the other side of the line.

Dean lets out a breath. "Sam," he says, trying to sound as impassive as possible. "Could we... could we talk?"

"Sure." A pause. "Is it about..."

"Yeah."

"Okay." Sam sucks in a breath and walks somewhere, the steps resonating into Dean's side of the line. "Tell me. What's up?"

"I just..." He sighs. "I talked to my therapist about it, finally. And... apparently incest as an unhealthy coping mechanism happens. Like, she's seen cases like ours before. And I just want to... to apologize. I know I hurt you and retraumatized you."

"Well, I know you aren't doing peachy keen either," he says. A humorless laugh escapes his lips. "But, yeah. I know. I don't think we should... see each other. In person, I mean."

Dean's heart breaks. "You think it'll inevitably end in us doing... _that_ again?"

"I mean," he starts, voice thick with something, some emotion Dean can't categorize with ease. "I mean. I think that if you got drunk you'd probably end up kissing me." A pause. "Force of habit, you know."

"I've been getting drunk out of guilt," he replies. He lets out a shaky little sigh. "I'm not going to sleep with you while drowning in my own guilt and trying to abate it with cheap beer." He huffs, and then his voice gets much softer. "But I understand if you don't want to talk in person. I get it. I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry I did this to you."

"I kind of spurred it on, anyway, it's not your—"

"Sam," he says, cutting. "We both... we both caused this in different manners. It's not your fault completely, especially when you've gone through psychosexual trauma and I... I haven't." He groans. "How's college?"

"College's great," he replies. "Trying my best to work with the therapist here. Haven't mentioned you yet though. In... in that sense, I mean, they don't think I'm an only child or anything."

He laughs a bit at that, completely humorless. "You probably should," he says. "You can't just ignore the thing that hurt you the most forever, Sammy."

"Sure can't," he says. "It's harder to bring it up than _hey my dad raped me_ , though. Perhaps because it was... consensual, and then it's just a whole mess of dealing with the therapist's first reaction to that. If that makes... if that makes any damn sense."

"Yeah, I struggled to bring it up to mine." He presses his phone against his ear harder, as if that'd make him closer to Sam somehow. As if the miles would grow smaller in number with that motion. "I've just been working. Trying not to hunt monsters. I don't want to be even more like him than I already am."

"What, alcoholic and been inside me?"

"Sam."

"Yes," he says softly. "Sorry."

Humor flows out of Sam with ease, a joke to deflect from the seriousness of the situation. Yet another unhealthy coping mechanism to add to an ever-growing list. It makes Dean uneasy, but it's not like he's any better off, with hypersexuality and alcoholism and emotional repression.

"It was nice to hear you," Dean says.

"It was nice to hear you too," he replies. "Maybe one day I'll be comfortable with seeing you again."

He grits his teeth at that, struggles against the urge to start crying. "Yeah. I hope so. Don't push yourself though, it's not worth it, kid."

"I know, Dean," he says. "I know."

"Hear from you soon."

"Yeah."

He hangs up and stares at his phone for a long time before tucking in back into his pocket. He has an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting to go to in an hour. He knows he can recover from this. And sure, his relationship with Sam wil never be quite the same, but that's the price to pay for the mistakes made along the way.


End file.
